


i had a thought dear (however scary)

by midnightspecial



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Clarke is a teacher, F/F, Falling In Love, Lexa is a single parent, Mischievous Children, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-25
Updated: 2015-07-25
Packaged: 2018-04-11 04:25:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4421246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightspecial/pseuds/midnightspecial
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two years ago, Lexa lost her wife, Costia, leaving her a single mother of two small children. Now, with Gustus entering kindergarten and Anya starting the fourth grade, their lives are almost normal. Then, Lexa meets Clarke Griffin, Gustus's new teacher.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i had a thought dear (however scary)

**Author's Note:**

> this fic idea was submitted to me by a lovely anon. anon, if you're reading this, you're amazing and i want to be your friend.

The ghost of their mother roams the house, a ghoulish reminder of the gaping wound both Anya and her brother, Gustus, bear. In all truth, it would be better if the ghost was their _dead_ mother; that, Anya thinks, she could handle. But their ghost is flesh and blood and bone; it couriers them to and from their school five miles away, kisses their cheeks, makes their breakfast, tucks them into bed. Her hands are warm and kind, her curls soft and tickling, her words tender and loving, her eyes quietly haunted by the ghost none of them can see.

For two years, now, Costia has been laid to rest, her ashes grounding an elegant pine nearly as tall as Gustus, who hardly remembers the mother he used to have, wild as the wind, whose smile the sun nor the moon could eclipse. Yet, he knows the halved heart his mother, Lexa, clutches close, understands exactly how to love her - knows how to hug her so all the pieces of her heart fit together, knows what stories she likes telling and reading best, knows every way to make her smile. (Anya had taught him herself.)

A soft knock comes from the opposite side of the room, and Anya whips around, two hair ribbons clutched in either hand, her collection of bandanas laid out in front of her. Her heart is lodged in her throat, sticky with nostalgia and yearning, and she nods at her mother, who tilts her head into the room questioningly, and silently proffers the scraps of silk. 

Smiling, Lexa steps into the room and sits on the bed in front of her daughter, taking up the cherry-colored ribbons. Anya perches on the round stool, her knobby spine rubbing against Lexa’s knees.

As she begins to carefully diffuse the lethal knots in her daughter’s hair, Lexa asks, “What do you want to do with your hair tomorrow?”

_Tomorrow_ \- such an innocuous word, flush with promise and mystery and hope. Lexa used to live for tomorrows, for tender good morning kisses and steaming coffee mugs viewed through bleary eyes and half-formed, grand plans from her grinning wife. Then, suddenly, tomorrow was her children’s birthdays and hours bouncing red-faced children on her hips and sweet kisses with her wife leant over the crib and late night feedings that blurred the days together. And she loved those tomorrows, too. 

Tomorrow, Anya and Gustus meet their teachers for the upcoming school year. Lexa remembers that panicky excitement well: looking at the list of prospective teachers with the sage words of the older kids ringing in her ears, wondering where her seat would be, where _Costia’s_ seat would be, what decorations her teacher would smatter the plaster walls with, and if this would be the year she learned fractions.

Anya scrunches her brow, lips pursed with indecision, tension collecting in her proud shoulders. Smoothing down the last lock of thick, honey-colored hair, Lexa skitters her nails down Anya’s back. For all her daughter’s seriousness, she dissolves into giggles, shimmying away from Lexa’s tickling fingers.

“ _Ma_!” Anya protests.

Chuckling, Lexa holds up her hands in surrender. “All right, all right. How about I put give you some fishtails tonight, and we make a decision tomorrow morning?”

“Ma, we don’t live anywhere near a creek. Where are you gonna get fishy tails?”

 The comment is a punch to the gut and a tender embrace all at once, taking her breath away; everything about it drips with Costia - the words, the teasing lilt of their daughter’s voice, the proud puff of her chest, the tiny lisp she has taken on as her new, adult teeth find a home in her mouth.

Affection overwhelms her, and Lexa taps Anya’s nose playfully. “I went to the market today, and bought one special. It’s kind of smelly, but maybe your teacher will like fish, hm?”

“Ma!” An exceptional eye roll accompanies the exasperated outcry, and Lexa chuckles, tugging the stool closer.

“Hush. Your brother is asleep already. And _I_ certainly don’t want to wake him; do you?”

Anya gives a little grimace, and Lexa knows she is remembering Thanksgiving last year, when Gustus ate himself into a food coma before the guests had even arrived. He had woken up, cranky as a bear roused out of hibernation and equally as sleepy.

“Naw.”

Lexa hums her acknowledgement, starting to weave her daughter’s hair into twin braids. 

 

* * *

 

When Lexa wakes, there is a cold space beside her, where a lover once laid. Curling further into herself, she reaches for the pillow that used to be Costia's and holds it close. She was never supposed to be alone in this; Costia was supposed to be at her side until they were old and grey and couldn't remember where they had put their dentures the night before. (Lexa would have loved her, even then.) 

Swallowing back tears, she rolls to face her beside table, where pictures of her children rest. Not a month after Costia had died, Lexa had tucked away the pictures in their room, unable to see the ghost she always feels, the heavy touch on her shoulders, weighing down her heart. When her alarm buzzes, she turns it off and rolls out of bed in one motion. Yawning, she stretches her arms above her head, leaning forward and placing her palms on the floor, relishing the ache in her muscles.

As the haze of sleep clears from her mind, the acute ache of Costia's absence drifts to a manageable level. That manageable level, Lexa often thinks, could break the back of any man. It used to wreck her, fracture her and send her to her knees in the middle of the night, paralyzed. But her muscles have strengthened, her bones hardened to the weight of memories and the yawning chasm of her sorrow.

Lexa pads out of her room, feet gathering the nighttime chill from the wood floors, and begins a dance she knows well. Knocking softly on Gustus's door, she waits for the breathy grunt before nudging the door open. 

"Gustus, time to wake up." He snuffles in response, hugging his plush _mjölnir_ tighter. "Gustus, I'm making pancakes." The promise seems to have slunk into his subconscious, for he pops a single, hazel eye open, which bounces around the room until it finds Lexa.

"Mkay," he sighs, pushing his face into his pillow.

"Ten minutes."

"Okaaaaay."

Smiling and filled to bursting with love, Lexa slips the iPod from the pocket of her pajama bottoms and scrolls through the myriad of songs - the Frozen soundtrack, Taylor Swift, Motown, classic Disney, Spice Girls. She taps on "Ho Hey" by the Lumineers and slides it under Anya's door. Humming quietly, Lexa begins breakfast, setting a glass of milk and a banana before her children's places at the counter. 

Bleary-eyed and yawning, Gustus shuffles into the room, plopping down in his chair and hunching over his banana. He looks like a middle age accountant, fresh out of a hellish tax season, who retreats to the local bar and asks the barkeep to leave the bottle. Lexa nudges the milk toward him, and he snuffles, smacking his banana wetly.

"Mouth closed," Lexa reminds kindly, smiling her approval when he pushes his face toward her, no banana fragments or teeth in sight.

"Who d'you think my teacher's gonna be?" Gusts worries, rubbing his nose.

"Maybe Miss Indra."

Gustus's dark eyes go wide, and he gulps his milk noisily. "R-really?"

"Anya liked her." Lexa turns to the griddle to hide her smile, easing pancake batter into neat circles and running a fork through the scrambling eggs.

"I did!" Her daughter chimes. "She's not _that_ scary, Gustus. Really. She's funny!"

"You like _bugs_ , Anya. I'm not listening. Miss Indra scares me."

Scoffing, Anya pushes her bangs from her face. "I hope I get Mr. Tristan."

Gustus's gasp of horror is enough for Lexa to turn about, a single brow raised. "Who's that?"

"He's _terrifying_ , Ma. He's bald and he doesn't got any eyebrows and his voice is really deep." Gustus gives a shudder, taking another nervous bite of his banana.

Anya scoffs, taking a long drink of her milk and begins to fiddle with the speakers' remote while Lexa flips the finished pancakes from the griddle into the two plates - one Captain America's shield, the other bearing a painting of a monkey. Steaming eggs accompany the pancakes a few moments later, and Lexa pushes the food at her children, leaning over her own plate. It is in moments like these that life feels almost normal. Lexa can almost breathe, almost forgets the way Costia’s lips felt on hers, almost feels free.

_Almost._

 

* * *

 

Nervousness plucking at her muscles, Anya reaches up and tightens the knot on her bandana, pats the roll her mother created from her bangs.

“Anya’s _scared_ ,” Gustus teases, his face ruddy with delight.

Baring her teeth, Anya smacks his arm. “Am not!” she growls.

The door beside them pops open, and both freeze, Anya’s fist full of Gustus’s unruly hair, her brother’s fingers viciously pinching a patch of skin on her stomach. Her eyes threaten to well with tears, but she grits her teeth, sniffs when he lets go, abashed. Silently, Lexa unbuckles Gustus and helps him onto the pavement next to her. Anya unsnaps her safety belt and hops from the car, rounding to face her mother’s disapproving look - lips pursed, jaw tilted slightly away. Moments before, she had given a small roll of her eyes, something neither Anya or Gustus was supposed to know or see - because Ma was a _grown up -_ but Anya has spotted the secret expression a couple of times, in reflections of appliances and freshly cleaned windows.

Quietly, Anya takes the hand, familiar as her own, and walks through the school doors with her family. They are short a member, and everyone knows it. She feels the stares, even now. Her mothers used to be _Lexa and Costia,_ like peanut butter and jelly, never really without each other, and if they were, neither were as good. Anya swallows down the urge to snap at Nyko’s mother, whose eyes are syrupy with pity; her husband pulls her closer, and Anya has to look away.

The trio approach the broad display of the student body’s assignments, and Lexa scans for her son’s name, first, on the leftmost list.

“Looks like you’ve got someone called Miss Griffin,” Lexa says, and Gustus’s death grip on her hand loosens.

“Oh,” he sighs. “…Who’s that?”

“I’m not sure, but we can go meet her.”

“I have Mr. Odega!” Anya enthuses. At her mother’s questioning glance, she rolls her eyes. “ _Everyone_ knows he’s the best teacher, Ma. Come on.”

“Well, you’ll have to introduce me. We’ll go meet Miss Griffin first, hm?”

“That’s fine.” 

Lexa knows Anya isn’t listening anymore; she can see the plans forming behind her daughter’s eyes: the outlay of her desk, the number of colored pencils she will sweetly ask for, the skill she will whip out for the infamous talent show in March. Guiding Gustus and Anya about the congregated parents, Lexa finds Miss Griffin’s room in the kindergarten pod and nudges Gustus in front of her, into the classroom. He smooths down his tie, runs his fingers through his hair, and steps into line.

“Ma?” Anya sings, her voice honeyed and sweet. When Lexa’s attention is on her, she smiles toothily. “There’s cake and punch in the cafeteria. Can I go there and find my friends. I’ll wait for you and Gustus, and then we can all go meet Mr. Odega.”

“There’s supervision?” Lexa asks, glancing at her son’s place in Miss Griffin’s line.

“Yes! Teachers _and_ principals.” Anya shifts forward excitedly, shifting her weight from foot to foot.

“Let me walk you-“ She sees the agonized protest on her daughter’s face, and amends, “At least until I can see the cafeteria.”

“ _Fine._ ”

Together, Anya pouring excited energy, they walk to the head of the pod, and Lexa watches her dart to the cafeteria. When she hears the loud chorus of “Anya!” and the excited chatter-laughter of reunited friends, she turns back and joins Gustus in line.

 

* * *

 

After a few minutes, the family in front of them (consisting of twin boys that had, at one point, been a part of Gustus’s playgroup, until they had sent him into the woods alone, to go “exploring”) steps to the side, and Miss Griffin looks up with a smile. She is…lovely. Lexa cannot think coherently enough to find a better word. (Even the sky could not replicate the blue of her eyes, soft with kindness, and the faint dimple on her chin is so very endearing.) Her heartbeat quickens, tapping nervously against her ribs. 

With a swagger in his step, Gustus moves forward, offering out a hand. “I’m Gustus Heda,” he greets, grinning a gap toothed smile. “Your hair is very pretty.” He has every ounce of charm that Costia used to exude, enchanting everyone from their closest friends to strangers on street corners; she was inevitable, magnetic, and it is impossible not to see her in Gustus.

“Well thank you, Gustus. I really like your tie.” Miss Griffin gives the end a small tug, and Gustus flushes under the praise.

“Thank you, Miss Griffin!”

“Your other classmates are over there,” Miss Griffin says, pointing to the conglomerate of future kindergarteners. “I bet they’d love to meet you.”

“Bye, Miss Griffin!” With that, Gustus is off, on his way to charm his classmates.

The ripples of a smile on her mouth, her heart in her throat, Lexa steps forward. “Hi. I’m Lexa, Gustus’s mother.”

Her smile is beautiful, and her name is Clarke. She says, “Your son certainly makes a great first impression.”

“He does; he got that from his mother.” For a few moments, Lexa watches the gears in Clarke’s mind turn before her eyes brighten slightly with realization.

“Well, with you as a partner and Gustus as a son, she’s certainly a very lucky woman.”

“She was.”

There is a quiet pause in their conversation, but Clarke recovers beautifully, smiling, as Lexa curses herself for being so obtuse. She can feel the flush on her cheeks, swallows down her embarrassment. “Gustus juggles very well.” 

At Lexa’s confused look, Clarke tilts her chin toward the children, her brows raising with a laugh. Gustus is in the center of a small group of children, juggling plastic bricks. Though his mouth moves, his brows bouncing animatedly, due to all the cross noise, they cannot hear what he says. Clarke glances back to Lexa, who looks at her son with affection-softened features, but there is a certain rise to her brows, that hints at sorrow. If she looks hard enough, perhaps Clarke will see the ghost that lingers with the woman, tangible as a working limb.

“I’m very excited to have Gustus in class,” Clarke offers, drawing Lexa back into conversation.

“I’m sure you say that to all the mothers..But Gustus _is_ very special.” 

Her voice, even and smooth, is pleasant, deeper than Clarke’s own, and powerful in its conversational softness. Clarke’s stomach sparkles with butterflies.

“I promise you I _don’t_ say that to all the mothers.”

There is an earnest wideness to those depthless blue eyes, something that hints at horror stories held carefully behind her teeth, and Lexa cannot help but laugh. (It is an exultation and a mortal wound at once, some part of her cracking open, blossoming, in a fit of white-hot pain and blinding pleasure.)

Across the room, Gustus turns back toward his mother, excitement rumbling in his chest, but his smile fades when he sees her expression. Her eyes are kind wide of and she has this dopey smile that he’s only seen in photographs Anya has snuck from the attic, with Mom in them. Something rushes through him, hot and unpleasant, and, suddenly, he hates Miss Griffin. He wants nothing more than to grab his mother’s hand and leave immediately, take her away, back home.

The plastic bricks drop to the ground noisily at his feet, and Gustus can hardly stand it. Turning away, he stalks up to his mother, tugging impatiently on the sleeve of her shirt.

“Ma, Anya’s gonna wanna meet Mr. Odoga.”

Miss Griffin stifles a laugh, and he hates her a little more, scowling at the stitching of his mother’s pants.

“All right; we’ll go. I thought you were having a _jolly good_ time.” Gustus lowers his brow and looks up at his mother, forcing himself to frown. The feeling in his chest has already lightened, though, the heat moving away from his face.

“Ma, no one says jolly good.”

“Well, I do.” She smiles down at him, infectious and motherly, and Gustus giggles, Miss Griffin completely forgotten. “We _do_ need to be off. It was nice to meet you, Clarke.” And then his ma and Miss Griffin are touching; it’s just a handshake, but Gustus feels like he’s going to burst all over again.

Drawing out a groan, he tugs his mother away, and she complies after a moment, her body loosening to the movement.

 

* * *

 

When Ma is talking with Mr. Odega (who, for the record, _is_ scary - tall and muscled and _almost_ bald; Gustus can’t imagine how Mr. Tristan could be any scarier, and, for that matter, he doesn’t want to know.) Gustus pulls Anya to the side.

“Ma likes my teacher.”

  
Anya, who hadn’t been listening in the least, snaps her attention to him at that statement. “ _What?_ ”

“Ma _likes_ my teacher.”

“Gustus, stop being stupid,” she snaps with a frown, but her eyes slide to her mother all the same. Her smile is looser, more ready, and Anya frowns. It isn’t that she doesn’t want to see her mother happy - she does, with all her heart - but…

_But I miss Mom._

_But_ she _misses Mom._

_But she’ll get hurt, and she’s still not back to normal._

“You know I’m not lying,” Gustus says smugly.

“We’re _not_ letting this happen, Gustus,” Anya replies, casting her mother a nervous glance.

**Author's Note:**

> upcoming: pining, parent/teacher conferences, meddlesome children, and proposed coffee dates. 
> 
> reviews, of course, are welcome and truly appreciated. 
> 
> xo


End file.
